Chapter 4: Whiskey and Old Wounds
The private bar of Vice was empty at this hour.
That was the point. No customers, no staff, no witnesses. Just the low hum of jazz and the amber glow of the chandelier and the slow burn of whiskey working its way down Craig's throat. He sat in the corner booth, the one with the best sightlines, and watched nothing at all.
The glass was almost empty. He'd been nursing it for an hour.
His phone buzzed on the table. He ignored it. It had been buzzing all night—Dominic, probably, or one of his father's men, checking in, making sure he was still breathing and not causing trouble. He wasn't causing trouble. He was sitting in his own damn bar, drinking his own damn whiskey, trying to forget the image of Emma's face when Dominic's hand had closed around her waist.
It wasn't working.
The door opened. Craig didn't look up. He knew who it was before the footsteps reached the bar—knew from the rhythm, the weight, the way the air shifted. Marco Bellini had been walking into rooms like he owned them since they were twelve years old. Some things never changed.
"Jesus, you look like shit."
Craig flipped him off without lifting his head.
Marco laughed. It was an easy sound, the kind of laugh that came from someone who'd never had to work for it. He slid onto the stool across from Craig, flagged down the bartender—Benny, who'd been working the bar since Craig's father ran the place—and ordered two fingers of scotch.
"You're not drinking that swill," Craig said, finally looking up. "It's a hundred-dollar bottle and you're mixing it with Coke."
"I'm not mixing it with anything." Marco held up his hand, palm out. "Sober tonight. Mostly."
"Mostly sober. That's a new look for you."
"Says the man who's been staring at the same glass for an hour."
Craig didn't answer. Just took another sip, slow and deliberate, and let the silence stretch between them. Marco was a lot of things—a loudmouth, a opportunist, a pain in the ass who'd been his closest friend since they were kids running bets in the Moretti family's basement—but he wasn't stupid. He knew when to push and when to wait.
Tonight, he decided to push.
"So." Marco leaned back, the leather booth creaking under his weight. "Your cousin's fiancée."
Craig's jaw tightened. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything." Marco's smile was innocent, which meant it was anything but. "I'm just making conversation. She's pretty. Quiet. Not what I expected for Dominic."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know." Marco shrugged. "Someone more... polished? She's got this thing about her. Like she's not quite comfortable in her own skin. Interesting."
Craig set his glass down. Hard. The sound echoed through the empty bar, and Benny looked up from his wiping, ready to intervene if needed. Craig waved him off.
"She's not interesting," he said. "She's a contract. A deal. Nothing more."
"Uh-huh." Marco's tone was flat. Unconvinced. "That's why you almost broke a glass when Dominic put his hand on her."
"I was reaching for my drink."
"You were reaching for something."
Craig leaned forward, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "Drop it."
Marco held up his hands in surrender. "Fine. Dropped." He took a sip of his scotch, eyes scanning the empty bar. "But you know, for someone who doesn't care, you seem to care a lot."
"I don't care."
"Right." Marco nodded slowly. "And I'm not the most handsome man in this family."
"You're not the most handsome man in this room."
"Harsh."
"Truth."
Marco laughed again, and this time Craig felt the tension in his shoulders loosen, just slightly. This was what Marco did. What he'd always done. He pushed until you thought you'd break, then pulled back just enough to remind you why you kept him around.
They sat in silence for a while, the jazz filling the space between them. Craig thought about ordering another drink, decided against it. He was already too loose, too raw. Another sip and he might say something he couldn't take back.
"Hey." Marco's voice had shifted. Softer. "There's something I heard tonight. Something you should know."
Craig looked up.
"The engagement," Marco continued. "It wasn't supposed to be Dominic."
The words hit like a punch to the chest. Craig didn't move. Didn't blink. Just sat there, glass frozen halfway to his lips, watching Marco's face for the lie.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about what I heard." Marco leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Your father had the deal set up months ago. The Whitmore girl—Emma—she was supposed to be yours."
Craig's grip tightened on the glass. "That's not possible."
"It's the truth. Salvatore had it all planned. The marriage, the merger, the whole thing. You were supposed to meet her at some point. Get to know her. Do the whole courting thing your father keeps pushing." Marco's smile turned bitter. "But Dominic got wind of it. Went to Salvatore. Made his case. Said he'd earned it, said it was his reward for years of loyalty. And your father—"
"Gave it to him."
"Gave it to him." Marco nodded. "Like a bone to a dog."
Craig set his glass down very carefully. His heart was beating too fast, a violent rhythm against his ribs. The jazz felt too loud, the lights too bright, the air too thin.
"He stole her," he said quietly.
"Your father gave her away."
"Same thing."
Marco didn't argue. Just watched him with something that might have been pity, might have been concern. Craig's hands were shaking. He didn't know when they'd started, only that they were, and that the tremor ran all the way up his arms and into his chest and settled somewhere deep in his gut like a fire that couldn't be put out.
She was supposed to be mine.
The thought came unbidden, unwanted. A whisper of something dark and possessive that coiled around his heart and squeezed. He remembered the first time he'd seen her—standing in the middle of Dominic's penthouse, clutching her bag like a lifeline, wearing clothes that screamed I don't belong here. She'd looked at him with those eyes, big and quiet and entirely unimpressed, and something had shifted inside him. Something he'd been trying to ignore for weeks.
She was supposed to be mine.
"You didn't know," Marco said. It wasn't a question.
"No."
"Figured." Marco finished his scotch and set the glass aside. "Dominic knew you wouldn't go for it. That's why he went to Salvatore first. Knew you'd fight it, knew you'd make a scene. So he cut you out. Made the deal before you even knew there was a deal to make."
Craig's laugh was cold. Hollow. "Always three steps ahead, my cousin."
"He's a snake."
"He's a Moretti."
Marco nodded like that explained everything, because it did. In this family, being a Moretti meant being ruthless. Being calculating. Being willing to stab your own blood in the back if it meant getting what you wanted.
Craig had done it too. He wasn't innocent. There was blood on his hands, debts collected, enemies buried. He'd looked the other way when his father did things that would keep other men awake at night. He'd smiled at funerals and shaken hands with killers and never once flinched.
But this felt different.
This felt personal.
"She doesn't want him," Craig said. The words slipped out before he could stop them. "She's miserable. You can see it in her eyes."
"You've been paying attention to her eyes?"
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying." Marco leaned back, studying him. "You're not usually this observant. You're not usually this... anything. What's the deal?"
"No deal."
"There's always a deal with you. You don't do anything without a reason."
Craig didn't answer. Because Marco was right. Everything he did was calculated, measured, strategic. He'd spent years learning to play the game, to see moves and countermoves before they happened, to anticipate and manipulate and win.
But this—whatever this was—didn't feel like a game.
It felt like something else.
It felt like hunger.
"You're gonna do something stupid," Marco said. It wasn't a question.
"Maybe."
"Something that's gonna get you killed."
"Probably."
Marco sighed. Long, slow, like he'd been carrying the weight of Craig's bad decisions since they were kids. Which, in a way, he had.
"Fine," he said. "But if you're gonna start a war, at least let me help."
Craig looked at him. Saw the loyalty there, the foolish, reckless loyalty that had kept them together through years of violence and betrayal and everything in between.
"Not yet," he said. "I need to think."
"Thinking's overrated."
"Thinking's the only thing standing between us and a bullet."
Marco's grin was sharp and familiar. "Fair point." He stood, stretching, and tossed a bill on the bar. "I'm out. Call me when you're ready to do something stupid."
"Always."
Marco paused at the door, looking back. "Hey, Craig?"
"Yeah?"
"You really gonna do this? Go after Dominic's girl?"
Craig's glass was empty. He stared at it for a long moment, thinking about a woman in a silver dress and the way she'd said I'm not a decoration like she was daring him to disagree. Someone was going to pay for that. Someone was going to bleed.
"She's not his," he said finally. "She never was."
Marco nodded. "That's what I thought." Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and Craig was alone with the jazz and the whiskey and the rage burning in his chest.
He stayed there for hours. Didn't drink. Didn't move. Just sat in the dark and let the anger settle into something colder, something sharper, something that would carry him through whatever came next.
She was supposed to be mine.
By the time the sun came up, he had a plan.
It wasn't a good one. It wasn't a safe one. But it was something, and something was better than nothing.
He pulled out his phone. Scrolled through his contacts until he found a number he'd saved months ago, back when he'd first noticed her name on his father's paperwork. A contact he'd never used, never needed, never thought he would.
Emma.
He didn't call her. She probably didn't even have her phone—Dominic would have taken it, wiped it, done his usual controlling bullshit. But he could find her. He knew where she worked. He knew where she lived. He knew everything about her, because his father's men had done their research, and Craig had memorized every detail like a man preparing for war.
The bookstore. The little apartment downtown. The coffee shop on the corner where she stopped every morning for a latte she couldn't afford.
He could find her.
And when he did, he'd ask her the same question he'd asked in the hallway. The same question he'd asked at the gala.
Are you going to keep pretending you don't need a rope, or are you going to let me throw one?
He didn't know what she'd say. Didn't know if she'd take it or tell him to go to hell. Didn't know if any of this was about her at all, or if it was just about Dominic, about the family, about the years of slights and power plays that had finally pushed him to the edge.
But he knew one thing for certain.
He wasn't going to let Dominic win.
Not this time.
He stood, pulled on his jacket, and walked out into the morning light. The city was waking up around him—cars honking, people rushing, the whole world moving in its predictable rhythms. He didn't notice any of it. He was already somewhere else, already thinking about the next move, the next step, the next moment when he'd see her again.
Emma.
The name felt like a secret on his tongue.
He was going to find her.
And then he was going to make her see that she'd been promised to the wrong man.
The morning tasted like copper and bad decisions. Craig drove with the windows down, the cold air doing nothing to cool the heat under his skin. His phone sat in the cupholder, screen dark, Emma's address saved in a folder labeled with a single word: Leverage.
He didn't go to her apartment. That would be stupid—too obvious, too desperate. Dominic would have eyes on the building, and Craig wasn't about to hand his cousin a reason to tighten the leash. Instead, he drove to the club, parked in the underground garage, and sat in the dark for twenty minutes with his hands wrapped around the steering wheel.
The rage had cooled into something harder. Something patient.
There was another dinner tomorrow. Salvatore's quarterly family gathering, the kind of mandatory bullshit where everyone showed up in their best clothes and pretended not to hate each other. Dominic would bring Emma. He'd parade her around like a trophy, his hand on her back, his voice in her ear, staking his claim in front of everyone who mattered.
Craig would be there. He always was.
The thought settled into his chest like a stone. Tomorrow night, he'd see her again. Tomorrow night, he'd have another chance to figure out what the hell he was doing.
He went upstairs to his office and didn't leave until the sun went down.
---
The dinner was at Salvatore's estate—a sprawling stone mansion in the hills that had been in the Moretti family for three generations. The driveway was lined with cars that cost more than most people made in a year, and the front door was flanked by two men in suits who nodded at Craig as he passed.
He nodded back. Didn't stop. Didn't smile.
The house smelled like rosemary and expensive wine. The dining room was already half full when he walked in—aunts and uncles and cousins he barely tolerated, all of them holding glasses and talking in the low, careful voices that meant business was being discussed.
Craig scanned the room. Found Marco near the bar, nursing a drink. Found Dominic at the head of the table, sitting like he already owned the place. Found Salvatore in his usual chair, watching everything with those cold, calculating eyes.
Didn't find Emma.
He grabbed a whiskey from the bar and took a long pull. Marco appeared at his elbow, smirking.
"You're early."
"Couldn't wait to see your ugly face."
"Charming as always." Marco's eyes flicked toward the hallway. "She's in the garden. Dominic's been keeping her on a short leash—literally, from what I hear. She's not allowed to leave his sight."
"She's not a dog."
"Tell that to Dominic." Marco's voice was light, but his expression wasn't. "He's been parading her around all week. Showing her off. Making sure everyone knows she's his."
Craig's grip tightened on his glass. "Where's the garden?"
"West side. Through the French doors."
He didn't thank Marco. Didn't need to. Just set his glass down and walked toward the hallway, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor.
The garden was quiet. Lanterns hung from the trees, casting soft pools of light across the gravel paths. The air smelled like jasmine and something sweeter—roses, maybe, or the faint perfume of the woman standing by the fountain with her back to him.
She was wearing a dress the color of deep red wine. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves over her shoulders, and her hands were clasped in front of her like she was praying. Or bracing herself for something.
Craig stopped a few feet away. "You look like you're about to jump."
Emma turned. Her eyes were wide, startled, and for a moment—just a moment—he saw something flicker across her face. Relief, maybe. Or recognition. Something that made his chest ache in a way he didn't want to examine.
"Craig." His name came out like a breath. "What are you doing out here?"
"Needed air." He stepped closer, stopping beside her at the fountain. "You?"
"Same." She looked away, back at the water. "Dominic's inside. He said he'd come find me when dinner's ready."
"He always does what he says?"
"Lately, yes." Her voice was flat. "He's very...thorough."
Craig laughed. It wasn't a warm sound. "That's one word for it."
"What word would you use?"
"Controlling. Possessive. A fucking nightmare." He watched her face as he said it, looking for a reaction. "You don't have to pretend with me, Emma. I know what he is."
She was quiet for a long moment. The fountain bubbled between them, the water catching the lantern light and throwing it back in fractured pieces.
"He took my phone," she said finally. "Deleted everyone I knew. Told me I'm quitting my job. Gave me a book of rules to memorize."
"I know."
"You know?""Marco told me." Craig turned to face her fully. "He also told me something else. Something about the engagement. About how it wasn't supposed to be Dominic."
"About how it wasn't supposed to be Dominic."
The words landed between them like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
Emma's body went still. Not the still of calm, but the still of a deer hearing a twig snap in the dark—every muscle locked, every nerve screaming. Her hands, clasped in front of her, tightened until her knuckles went white.
"What did you say?"
Craig watched her. He'd moved closer without meaning to, close enough that he could see the pulse beating in her throat. Close enough to smell the faint lavender clinging to her skin—the same scent that haunted Dominic's penthouse, the same scent that had been driving him insane for weeks.
"The engagement," he said slowly. "It was supposed to be mine."
She stared at him. Blinked. And then—
A laugh. Sharp. Bitter. The kind of laugh that came from a place deeper than humor.
"Oh, poor guy." Her voice dripped with something that wasn't quite anger, wasn't quite amusement. "Didn't get the debt bride. What a pity."
Craig's jaw tightened. "That's not—"
She crossed her arms. The movement was defiant, her chin lifting, her eyes hard. The same eyes that had looked at him in Dominic's penthouse and seen right through his bullshit. The same eyes that had been drowning at the gala, desperate for air.
"If you think that makes my case any better, it doesn't."
"Emma—"
"You can either be funny or pushy." She stepped back, putting space between them. "And I'm only interested in one kind of interaction today.Thank you very much."
The dismissal was clean. Surgical. She turned away, facing the fountain again, her spine a straight line of refusal. The lantern light caught the curve of her shoulder, the delicate line of her neck, and Craig felt something crack open in his chest.
He should walk away. Should leave her alone, go back inside, pretend this conversation had never happened.
He didn't move.
"I'm not trying to make your case better," he said. "I'm telling you the truth."
"I don't care about the truth." Her voice was quiet.Controlled. The voice of someone who'd spent years learning to keep everything locked down. "The truth doesn't change anything. I'm still stuck. I'm still engaged to a man I don't love. I'm still—" She stopped. Swallowed. "It doesn't matter who I was supposed to marry. It only matters who I'm marrying."
"It matters to me."
She turned. Slowly. Her eyes searched his face, looking for something—a lie, a trick, a punchline she could dismiss.
"Why?"
The question hit harder than it should have. Craig didn't have an answer. Or he did, but it wasn't one he could say out loud. Not yet. Not here.
"Because my cousin doesn't deserve you."
"Neither do you."
The words landed. Sharp. True. He felt them in his gut, a bruise he'd carry for days.
"You're right," he said. "I don't."
She blinked. Whatever she'd expected, it wasn't agreement.
"But that doesn't mean I'm going to stand by and watch him destroy you." Craig stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head up to keep eye contact. "I've known Dominic my whole life. He doesn't love you. He doesn't even like you. He sees you as a transaction—a deal his father made, a piece of property he earned. And the second you stop being useful, he'll discard you like yesterday's garbage."
Emma's breath caught. He saw it—the flicker of fear in her eyes, quickly masked.
"You don't know that."
"I do." His voice dropped. Low. Rough. "I know because I've seen him do it before. To other people. To women who thought they could change him, fix him, make him care. He can't. He's not built that way."
"And you are?"
The question was a knife. Craig felt it slide between his ribs.
"No," he said. "I'm worse."
She held his gaze. Didn't flinch. Didn't look away. The fountain bubbled between them, the water catching the lantern light and throwing it back in fractured pieces.
"Then why are you here?"
He didn't have an answer for that either. Or maybe he did, but it was tangled up in things he didn't want to name—jealousy, possession, the desperate need to prove that he could take something from Dominic, break something his cousin thought was his.
"Because I can't stop thinking about you."
The words slipped out before he could catch them. Raw. Honest. The most honest thing he'd said in years.
Emma's lips parted. Her arms, still crossed, loosened slightly. She looked at him like he'd just spoken a language she didn't understand.
"That's not fair."
"I know."
"You can't just—" She shook her head. "You can't show up at my engagement party and tell me you've been thinking about me. That's not—that's not something you get to do."
"I'm not asking for permission."
"Then what are you asking for?"
The question hung between them. Craig felt the weight of it, the gravity, the way it pulled at something deep in his chest.
He didn't answer. Just stood there, watching her, letting the silence speak for him.
Emma's eyes flickered to the house. Back to him. Her jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the smooth skin.
"I need to go inside."
"Emma—"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "Don't say anything else. I can't—I can't hear anymore tonight."
She walked past him. Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his chest, close enough that he could smell the lavender again, mixed with something warmer underneath. She didn't look back.
Craig watched her go. Watched the way she moved through the French doors, back into the light and noise and the world that wasn't his. His hands were shaking. He shoved them in his pockets and forced himself to breathe.
She was supposed to be mine.
The thought was a brand on his heart. He'd spent weeks trying to ignore it, trying to convince himself that Emma Whitmore was just another piece of his father's game, another pawn in the endless chess match between Dominic and himself. But she wasn't. She was stubborn and quiet and fierce, and he didn't want to hurt her. He just wanted to keep her.
From Dominic. From his father. From everyone who saw her as a transaction instead of a person.
And maybe—just maybe—from himself.
He stayed in the garden for a long time. By the time he went back inside, dinner was over, and Emma was gone.
---
The phone buzzed at 2:47 AM. Craig was awake, because he hadn't slept, because every time he closed his eyes he saw her face in the lantern light. He grabbed the phone and saw an unknown number. A text.
Don't text back. Don't call. I borrowed this from the maid. Dominic checks everything.
Craig's heart hammered. He stared at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He didn't type. Didn't respond.Just waited.
The second message came thirty seconds later.
I told you I couldn't hear anymore tonight. I lied. I heard everything.
His breathing tightened. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, the room pitch black except for the glow of the screen.
A third message appeared.
Why did you have to tell me? Why couldn't you just leave me alone?
And then, the fourth. The one that stopped his heart. The one that made him stand up and start pacing, already reaching for his jeans, already planning how to get to her.
Because now I can't stop thinking about you either.